Saturday June 27, 2009
The iron horse driver
NAVEL GAVER BY ALEXANDRA WONG
Just about everyone has been on a train. But have you ever wondered who’s driving the locomotive and what that person must be like?
There is still a comfortable half-hour before my Kuala Lumpur-Ipoh train is due to travel south, so I head for the buffet coach.
As I settle down with my warm nasi lemak and steaming hot coffee, the four blue-uniformed officers at the neighbouring table regard me with some curiosity.
It is still unusual, I guess, in this part of the world for single women to do rail travel solo. Before long, I’m peppered with the standard 64 questions: What do I do? Studying or working? Why do I take the train?
“I used to take the bus, but after trying out trains, I’ve never turned back,” I say.
One of the uniformed chaps, a curly-haired spitting image of former Malaysian pop king Jamal Abdillah, swivels around and gives me a thumbs up — “All right!” he grins.
I high-five him back.
At the sound of the whistle, everybody disperses to their respective station, save one.
“So what do you write about?” he asks continuing the interrogation.
“Everything,” I say unhelpfully, before explaining, “I even wrote an article about a bus driver after I had a conversation that altered my perception about them as irresponsible good-for-nothings!”
“Hmmm. Would you like to interview our train driver?”
My eyes go round.
“Can I?”
A flurry of calls and clearances from the powers-that-be obtained, I find myself in the locomotive. Turns out Jamal Abdillah’s doppelganger IS the driver. His name is Azmi.
I settle into the foldable chair between him and the assistant, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The screen before us displays the fuel level, velocity and a host of other parameters — it’s definitely more Captain Kirk and his snazzy Enterprise than Stephenson and his coal-fired Rocket.
“So how long have you been a driver?” I start with the usual.
“I’ve worked with KTM for 24 years. Out of that, I was a driver for 10 years.”
“And before you became a driver?”
“I was an assistant, like him,” he gesticulates to the smiling gentleman on my right.
“You have to undergo training, then be an assistant before eventually graduating to driver. I was an assistant for more than 10 years.”
“Wah, have to be driver-in-waiting for so long?”
“Yup. And even if you attend driving school, there’s no guarantee that you will be a driver. The only time you get a crack at the cockpit is when somebody retires.”
I rapidly digest all this.
“You must have seen a lot of things in your time. I’ve always wanted to ask: Why do accidents happen?”
He pauses before answering.
“There are two reasons for accidents. One, natural disaster. Two, human carelessness.”
“Have you ever had a fatal accident?” I ask timidly, half-afraid of the answer.
“Ah, yes. I’ve rolled over seven people in total,” he reveals, eyes unblinking. He pauses, studying me keenly.
“How did you feel?” I say neutrally, trying to keep the shock from my voice.
“The first time, I couldn’t eat for days. When we got down, his body was still twitching. It was gruesome. But after number three or four, you are numb to it.”
He looks away.
I gulp.
“Is there anything you could have done to prevent it?”
“Nope. Train wheels have no treads. When you brake, the wheels just slide along the metal rails. You can’t just apply the emergency brake either,” he concludes bewilderingly.
“Why not?”
“When you apply the emergency brake, you risk jeopardizing the lives of your passengers as the train may veer out of control, jump the tracks and crash on its side. In trying to save one, hundreds would be at peril.”
I press on, not unlike an unstoppable runaway train.
“Why do you think those people were on the tracks?”
“I think the guy was trying to commit suicide. Even though we honked and gave ample warning, he refused to budge.”
“What do you do with the corpse?”
“Depends. First we alight to check the condition of the body, then we put it on the side of the track before lodging a report.”
“When these accidents happen, do you carry the body yourself or get help?”
“I ask the staff to help us. If they don’t, I tell them, ‘We can stay here all night, and wait for rescuers to come, or you can get your bum out here and help me move the body to the side of the railroad’. That usually works,” he says with a wink.
Despite myself, I laugh.
By now, a light rain has started to descend.
“Ah, hujan gerimis,” he changes the topic subtly.
“Isn’t that renyai?” I ask, not sure of the distinction between the two words anymore. My Bahasa Malaysia teacher would be heartbroken.
“Nope. Gerimis is the stage before renyai.” As droplets grow heavier, he says, “Now it’s renyai.”
“You talk so quaintly, like berpuisi (declaiming poetry) and in complete, grammatical sentences,” I observe with amusement.
“Oh, it has to suit the occasion. If I am talking to my homies, then it’s different. But I’m talking to you, so I must take care in my selection of words and diction so that you understand me clearly. Right?”
“That guy is highly-educated,” his assistant interjects suddenly. “He even went to Form Six!”
He smiles sheepishly.
“Yes, I was in the Arts Stream.”
Abang Azmi looks uncomfortable about being put on a pedestal so I change the topic.
“Thanks for sharing all your stories with me, Abang Azmi,” I say feelingly. “I’m fortunate to have met a generous soul like you today.”
“You should thank God, not me, for that,” he says. “Isn’t that what all of us wish for, ultimately? To meet good people who can help us walk a smooth path in life. Even when I pray to God, I ask not for riches or fame, but for him to permudahkan (ease) my life.”
By now, we have reached KL Sentral. Just before I alight, he says with a smile, “Whatever happens here, I hope you won’t write bad things. It will bring shame not only to my name but my employer’s name.
“Every job carries a responsibility, not just mine. You have a powerful tool. Use it wisely. In any job, you are entrusted with amanah (trust). You understand what is amanah, yes?”
I nod solemnly, not quite believing what just happened.
Who would have guessed that concealed within that anonymous locomotive is a man with nerves of steel who breathes Zen philosophy, spouts poetic eloquence and exudes ice-cool composure? Indeed, life is stranger than fiction.
> Alexandra Wong (bunnysprints.blogspot.com) thinks real heroes don’t fly around in a cape.
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